By Michael Hazani
Contributing Writer

My break is almost over. I’m flying back to Boston in six days. This time next week I’ll be in my Trad Harm class, and what I’m about to tell you will seem like a distant fairytale, and not a very pleasant one at that. Which is why I have to tell you this:

After two weeks of fighting, the Palestinian body count is 760 – some of which are terrorists, others – innocent civilians. The Israeli death toll is currently 13; mostly teens who, in a different time and place, would be going to college right now. So far more than 450 missiles have been launched from the Gaza strip towards Israel, paralyzing major southern cities, sending thousands of civilians to terror-ridden lives spent in shelters. In the meanwhile, Israeli jets, artillery, and infantry are plowing their way through the streets of Gaza, demolishing immense bulks of homes, facilities and infrastructure.

I am currently writing this from my home in Jerusalem, which – thank God, or Allah – is still out of the missiles’ range. While in the past we’ve had our share of terror, this current conflict seems to spare us. Nevertheless, war is all around: A close friend can no longer attend his university, because it’s located in one of the bombarded cities. Other acquaintances have been re-drafted to the army, and some are cautiously making their way through deadly streets as I’m writing this. Families are hosting people from the south, who have fled up north without knowing when they’ll be able to return to their homes. And every time you turn on the TV, the whole thing jumps at you: Another Palestinian home destroyed. Another Israeli kindergarten demolished. Eventually faces fade out, nationalities become irrelevant – to paraphrase Freddy Mercury, this is hell for everyone.

I wrote the above a week before I returned to Boston. As of January 21, Israel has declared a unilateral ceasefire and the IDF has withdrawn its troops from the Gaza strip, thus allowing a well-appreciated, if temporary, moment of peace for both sides. As for myself – I’m back, enjoying the carefree early days of the semester, and I’m crossing my fingers…
But there’s one thought I can’t get out of my head: It’s a lot harder to be empathetic when the damn thing is taking place halfway across the world, isn’t it?

That is exactly why I’m writing this: I’m afraid of forgetting. I’m afraid of locking myself up in the Berklee bubble, as we are all prone to do. John Donne once wrote: “No man is an island, entire of itself.” I guess I’m afraid of becoming an island.